


you are in love (true love)

by midnightwhisperings



Category: Grand Theft Auto IV
Genre: Drabble Collection, Eventual Smut, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, and when i say fluff i mean a lot of fluff, idk are the last two the same thing, tomato tomahto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightwhisperings/pseuds/midnightwhisperings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niko can't particularly put the phrase 'I love you' in a coherent sentence. To counteract that, he decides to say it in every other way humanly possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you can feel it on the way home

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! :) These drabbles are based on this list of phrases. (http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you) . I'll be picking my way through them to see which ones I'll be able to work with, as I do not think I'd be able to do them all. Only time will tell. ;)
> 
> The phrases probably won't be in any particular order, though (by order, I mean it won't be like an actual chronologically ordered story - which is a given, since these are all just drabbles) and more than one phrase in the list may be used in a single drabble - simply to avoid redundance. 
> 
> Title is from 'You Are in Love' by Taylor Swift. Feel free to have a listen while you read if you'd like (I find that the song is pretty complementary to the story - I mean, there has to be a reason why some of its verses are the title, right?) or don't, whatever's your cup of tea. Whatever it is you do, make sure you enjoy. :-)

Niko's possibly more of a gentleman than he gives himself credit for, but _also_ possibly not enough of a gentleman to anyone else.

 

Since he and Packie have become a thing - that's what they insist on referring to themselves as, a ‘thing’ - he's been pretty adamant on looking after him whenever they go drinking. Looking after Packie would, of course, only be effective if he himself were sober, if not slightly buzzed - so, slightly buzzed he'd stay, if he even got to that point.

 

So, perhaps some would consider him gentlemanly for willingly giving up night after night of drink and good times just to keep an eye on some Irish brat - something he would never do even for his own cousin - while others would just consider him a paranoid tightass, like said Irish brat sitting beside him with his head face-down on the bar.

 

"You think," Packie had slurred, already on his seventh glass of Piswasser, "I'd fuckin' run off with some other guy if you wasn't sober, if you wasn't keeping an eye on me? Shit, Niko, this ain't Hercules. We're the only two gays in this joint. No other fag would ever set foot here." He punctuated his statement with a belch.

 

Niko squinted his eyes at Packie's use of The Word, trying to pretend the dirty looks being thrown their way weren't grating on his nerves. It was offensive, but it was a different kind of offensive. Packie was too drunk to care.

 

"Well, at least I know you're faithful, even when you're drunk." Niko grumbled, crumpling his hands together and gesturing to the barmaid for the check.

 

"Damn right I _am_. I may get around, but I don't fuckin' cheat." Packie waggles his index finger in the air as though it would help him prove his point. Niko only realizes now that Packie's the loudest patron in the bar, but it's not like that surprises him. The kid breaks into _song_ , moans and cries about his quarter-life crisis (which is already 4 years overdue, mind you) and could trip over a fucking cordless phone when he's drunk. _Nothing_ Packie does surprises him anymore. It's a good thing he's learned to deal with it all, and has the patience to do so. Even when he compliments the barmaid's tits just to spite him, like he did just now. He'll admit Packie's a pain sometimes, possibly even a liability, but he doesn't think he'd want to have him any other way.

 

Later, Niko pays for Packie's mountain of drinks before going off to the bathroom, and Packie offers to warm up his car. Niko responds by handing Packie his jacket before he goes - the negligent idiot always insists on not bringing one for whatever asinine reason.

 

When Niko walks out of the bar, he sees Packie in the driver's seat, staring out the window with something that would look like longing. Maybe it's just the alcohol that's making him look like that, making his eyes all watery and his gaze so distant. If that's the case, he's definitely in no position to be where he's sitting.

 

"Come on, out of there. I'm driving." Niko says, opening the driver's side door.

 

"I'm straight, man, I promise," Packie pleads, slowly blinking his rheumy eyes. "If I hit a fire hydrant or some shit, the wheel's all yours."

 

Niko narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. "I do not think I can count on you to _not_ hit something of more importance than a fire hydrant."

 

"Look who's talking," Packie retorts. "You ain't even got a license!"

 

"So? I can still drive, just not legally. You being drunk makes you unable to drive physically _and_ legally."

 

"You've got a point. But I," Packie jerks a thumb towards his chest with the widest shit-eating grin Niko will ever see, "still got this wheel."

 

Niko was in half a mind to just start prying Packie out of the car. He probably should've, but he didn't. He knew he'd try to put up a fight. It wasn't like he couldn't take him - he just didn't want to make it look like something it wasn't. So, instead, he simply went around back to the passenger side, let himself in and muttered, "You're a fucking punk, you know that?"

 

Packie snickered and switched into drive. "But you love me, man. I know you do. 'S why you're such a tightass about not drinking and wanting to babysit me."

 

Niko stares out the passenger side window, his elbow propped on the armrest with his chin tucked in his hand. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

 

Then, Packie begins driving - to where, God only knows - at a much slower pace than Niko would initially expect. Niko doesn't know if he's trying to be careful, or if he thinks driving slowly will make everything stop spinning, but he gets his answer as soon as Packie raises his hand to his forehead and the needle on the odometer sinks from a 40 to a 20.

 

Packie's head is pounding and pounding as he crawls into a secluded street, and tells Niko that getting behind the wheel probably wasn't a good idea. Niko, shaking his head, knew that all too well. Then, out of nowhere, the kid starts _sobbing_ , spewing out apology after apology for being the stubborn bastard he is, and tearfully - and _mucuously_ \- begging Niko not to be mad at him. Niko was confused - this outburst actually surprised him for once - but patted his sniveling boyfriend's back nonetheless, promising that it was alright and that he wasn't mad.  


 

Since Packie had yet to hit anything, he still would've been okay to drive. Niko didn't think so, though - he took one look at him and couldn't tell where the sweat ended and the tears began. His face itself was redder than a beet, even without the stoplight flashing red before him. Niko couldn't let him drive, not like this. Once the bout of tears was over, he rubbed his back for the final time and said, "Pull over. I'll drive for a little while." Or, maybe forever.

 

Packie sniffled. With that sniffle came the Packie that Niko knew and didn't want to admit he loved. "I knew you _loved_ me, Niko. And I fuckin' love you too." He leans over the console to lay a rather sloppy kiss on Niko's cheek, and Niko rolls his eyes as Packie pulls the car up alongside the curb. 

 

The moment Niko steps out of the car, he wonders why he bothers to do this, to put up with this, why he bothers to drag this little prat back and forth like a fucking toddler. He has to wonder at least _once_ whenever he takes him places and starts acting up, sober or not sober. But then he _sees_ him, like he sees him through the car window right this moment, and _when_ he sees him, he sees everything, even when he's as pissed as he is. He sees the man who considers him a prince, his guardian angel, the man who loves him for reasons he'll never understand. The man he's found both a best friend and a lover in, his partner in crime. (Literally.) And it answers his question - for tonight. He knows he won't ever stop wondering why, but he also knows he won't ever start regretting any of it.


	2. you make it easier when life gets hard

Packie had never been particularly close to his oldest brother. If 'being close' meant being trapped under his elbow in a headlock while Gerry attempted to give him a wedgie, or standing by his hospital bed 20 years later just watching him slip away, then he probably would've been. But he wasn't. He was simply an example to follow. And seeing his example tied up to more tubes and machines than a multi-outlet, having his breathing done for him, having his heart rate monitored by some beeping machine that reminded him of a ticking time bomb, really made him think about his life choices.

 

He thought, and thought, and thought. Coke couldn't possibly be as bad as heroin, right? Was he still in the clear? Or was he next?

 

Maybe he should stop. He's got something - some _one_ \- to live for, now. Niko. The guy would lose it if he died. But maybe Niko's good for him. Maybe he distracts him. Maybe, just maybe, he won't be the next one on this bed. Maybe.

 

Perhaps Niko _is_ a good distraction. I mean, the most sinful thing Packie ever did with him was have a couple drinks every now and then. He doesn't feel the need to do any chop when he's with him, because being with him gives him something that not even a lifetime supply of it would give him. He doesn't know if it's added hormones, or _different_ hormones altogether, but point being, Niko makes him feel _good_. Niko is a drug all in himself, and Packie doesn't think he'd mind overdosing.

 

Stopping his use of coke altogether won't be easy, but Niko being by his side will make it easy. He always makes it easy.

 

He just wishes he were here now. He hadn't known about Derrick's overdose, because Packie never called to tell him. He thought he could've handled this on his own, be the man his father would've wanted him to be. But then he saw Kate, Gerry, and his mother all huddled up in the corner of the room, his mother's shoulders rising and falling with silent sobs, and he suddenly couldn't tell if he wanted to break something or break down.

 

Francis still wasn't here. Packie wasn't counting on him to come anytime soon. It wasn't like he actually cared for his brother - or his entire family, for that matter - as much as he cared for his job. Had it been Francis in Derrick's position instead, Packie probably would've fucked off somewhere as well, or perhaps just be fucking around with the vending machine down the hall pretending to his mom that he cared enough to at least come to the hospital.

 

He so desperately wanted to turn around and join the huddle, even though the thing they were all crying for hasn't even arrived yet. But his feet continued to propel him in the same direction across the room, back and forth, back and forth. The linoleum wouldn't stop squeaking beneath his sneakers. It seemed to merge with the rhythm of the electrocardiogram.

 

Then, the rhythm suddenly dropped out, being replaced with a long beep. With it, Packie abruptly stopped squeaking. His mother began to shriek. Kate tried shushing her, fighting back her own tears, but as long as the beep continued, the shrieks and gasps for air continued.

 

Doctors and nurses came rushing into the room, their coats flapping out behind them. All Packie saw were blurs of blue and white,  blue and white, ID cards and blurred faces swinging from breast pockets.

 

That was when he knew it was over.

 

He doesn't even know what he's apologizing for, what he should be sorry for, but he's the most sorry man in the world right about now.

 

Before he could run away, before he could allow one tear to escape his eyes, he felt arms around him. Arms that should've been familiar, arms that pulled the back of his underwear out of his pants too many years ago. They were covered in flecks of brownish-red hair, meatier than a slab of ribs, and they belonged to his brother.

 

There, the two men stood, hugging it away as though it could all be hugged away. The fuss of the doctors became secondary to them, even as they came by to share their condolences. The man who lay on that bed wasn't any more familiar to them than a distant relative who'd ask a little kid if they remembered them from when they were a baby, but he was their brother. _Was_ their brother. _Was_ supposed to be their guide, their closest friend, closer even than their father should've been. Now, he _was_ never going to get that chance.

 

As soon as Gerry let go and returned to his sobbing mother's side, who was now on her knees with her eyes in her palms, Packie reached into his phone and punched in Niko's number. It was almost like an impulse reaction.

 

He answered on the second ring. "Packie."

 

"Niko, Derrick's dead. My brother's fuckin' dead. You gotta get here, please."

 

A beat of silence. "What?" In that one question, several more were asked with it. When? How? Where? _What?_

 

"He overdosed, and now he's dead. We're at Schottler," The tears came flooding into Packie's eyes and suddenly he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. The words that crawled out of his mouth were nothing more than croaks. "Look, I don't care where you are or how long you take. Just get down here."

 

"I'm on my way."

 

Just as Packie hung up, he realized how much he was bluffing in his last statement. He _did_ care how long Niko took - the longer he'd take, the longer Packie would have to see his family come apart at the seams as he stood idly by, powerless to stop it, powerless to try to fix it. It'd be like trying to fix a broken mirror while standing in its shards of glass.

 

He wanted to get away, far away. But 'far away' was in the arms of someone who was much too far away.

 

He opted to go to the bathroom as the doctors rolled Derrick's body down to the morgue, their grim, sympathetic expressions doing little to comfort him or his family. Quite the contrary, really. His mother just sobbed even harder, nestling her head deeper and deeper within Kate's collarbone, as if she willed it to just swallow her whole already. Kate, bless her, couldn't do much else but rub her back and sing gently in her ear. Gerry, on the other hand, could do nothing but stand by and try to shush his mother when her cries grew too loud.  

 

Packie didn't cry when he entered the bathroom, like his family must've thought he was off to do. He simply glared at his reflection in the defaced mirror, scrutinizing the redness of his watery eyes and the scars crisscrossing his face. He probably would've cried looking at himself right then and there, but his eyes were burning from what little crying he's already done. His fists rhythmically clenched and unclenched at his flanks, tingling with the urge to hit something, to shatter through the glass so that it no longer reflected the part of him he hated most. It seemed that every little nook and cranny of this God forsaken hospital showed him something he hated - all the more reason to get the hell out of it.  

 

But he's not another Francis. He can't leave until the rest of his family does - if they have the heart to do so. He needs to hang on.

 

He bursts out of the bathroom with the same clenched fists, following the sound of his mother's hapless sobs to get back to them.

There, he sees a taller man kneeling beside Kate as she dabs at her mother's eyes with a tissue, and his gait turns to a gallop until he's nearly skipping towards them.

 

Packie's footsteps alert Niko to his presence, and he's got _maybe_ a split-second glimpse of him before he catapults himself into his arms. If Niko was surprised, he sure didn't show it - he rubbed up and down Packie's back like he'd seen him coming, squeezing him tight like he never wants to let go. Packie doesn't ever want him to.

 

He realizes how good it feels to _really_ cry, to let it all go. It feels even better to be held by the man who means the most to you as you do it, without the fear that he'll make fun of you because he's been there before, he knows what it's like. Packie wonders if he's thinking about it right now. He also wonders if he cares about how wet his jacket is getting.

 

But Niko stays put, rivers of tears and streams of mucus and all. He's as stiff and as grounded as a marble statue, yet he's as warm and homey as a comforter just pulled out of the dryer. He's here, and, best of all, he's here for him. Packie loves him for it.

 

Niko's still hugging him when he says, "I'm sorry for your loss." His voice is low and husky, almost jarring in comparison to his mother's shrill weeping and his sister's lilting falsetto.

 

"I'm sorry, too."

 

"There was nothing you could've done, Packie." Niko tilts his head slightly to press a kiss to Packie's neck.

 

Packie shut his eyes. That was what hurt the most. "I know."

 

"He is in a better place, now."

 

Packie's adam's apple bobbed. Maybe he's right. He doesn't have to see him jonesing so much anymore to the point where it pained him, doesn't have to see his life hanging on a thread that's already fraying. But Packie's too choked up to verbally admit that. Instead, he tells Niko he loves him and dances his fingers along his shoulder, gently rocking their bodies back and forth as they continue to hug.

 

Over Niko's shoulder, Packie watches Kate and Gerry attempt to pick their mother up off the floor, each of them holding one of her hands. She's stopped crying, but Packie can see that the pain still hasn't left her face. Her eyes, small and wrinked with age, are bloated and red, and the old silver streaks of tears beneath them still glint in the flourescent light. The man now being rolled down to the morgue was her first born, her first disappointment. She hadn't known him any better than her children knew him, as he'd spent most of his life in juvie or simply away from her. But he was still her _son,_ the first boy she brought into this world, who was now being brought out of it. Packie couldn't begin to imagine her grief. She'd probably be like this, sitting in her old green couch counting on the fireplace to dry her tears, for a long while.

 

Packie chose not to dwell on that thought. Instead, he returned his mind to Niko, how he still held onto him after all this time, and wouldn't let go unless Packie did. He loved Niko, so, so much. And, although he's believed that God has forsaken their family for the longest time, he still sent him a quick prayer of thanks for bringing him into his life when he's done nothing to deserve him. Niko, the brooding motherfucker, would probably think the same about himself.

 

God seems to work in mysterious ways. He'll take away your brother and allow your father to completely jade your childhood, but down the road he'll send some mysterious Slav with an equally as dark past to fall in love with you - even though he probably won't say that out loud - and live through everything life throws at him, whether it's angry mobsters, their goons, or the government, like he was _meant_ to be here and meant to stay. His guardian angel.

 

So, maybe fate was on their side. Maybe the broken pieces of their hearts, lives, and souls were meant to fit together and create something new, something beautiful. Something more. Maybe they were meant to be _art_ , like a mosaic or some shit. Maybe they were meant to be the jigsaw pieces that completed the whole puzzle.

 

And, maybe, Niko was right. Maybe heaven _was_ a better place for Derrick, where God can keep an eye on him, where he no longer has to suffer - if he _made_ it up there. But God was forgiving. God _was_ forgiveness. He's sure to have a special place for him somewhere. Packie held onto those thoughts almost as tightly as Niko held him, hoping to recite them when his time came to take care of his mother.

 

Staying strong for his family, or, more particularly, himself, wouldn't be easy. But Niko being by his side would _make_ it easy. He makes everything easy.


	3. i'm in love with you, and all these little things

Packie's lying in Niko's bed, his stomach churning like his insides have been spun by an electric mixer, his head pounding like the beat of some obnoxiously loud song at a nightclub, and he just genuinely feels like shit. Beside him, Niko's snoring away, blissfully unaware of the internal hell his boyfriend has subjected himself to. He would've been feeling it, too, had he drank more than just a measly bottle of Logger, but he's a bit smarter than that. So, Packie was left to do nothing but glare at the back of his head, wanting to give the lucky bastard a piece of his mind - and, maybe, his fist. He loves him, he swears he does, but he also kind of hates him.

 

Niko turns around in his sleep so that he's now facing Packie, his eyes soft and shut and his breathing coming out of his nose in gentle heaves that Packie can feel and hear all the same. He's in half a mind to wake him up to make him bring him something, whether it's breakfast or just an Advil, and he'd _have_ to do it because he loves Packie and can never say no to Packie.

 

But this is the one time where Packie gets to see his murdering, borderline deranged, revenge-driven boyfriend with his guard down. _All_ of it down. He notices visible deviations in his countenance when he's in this state. For one, his eyebrows are relaxed, and the rest of his features, especially his cheekbones, no longer look like they could slice your fingers open if you ran your hand down them. Packie decided to test that theory.

 

But then, his eyes open, and they remind Packie of a beast awakening from its slumber. The softness on his face as he slept doesn't wash away in the sunlight, but Packie knows he's now on high alert again, as always - but, honestly, he mostly just looks kind of flustered. Packie can't tell if Niko's a terribly light sleeper, or if he's just a terribly rough toucher.

 

"What are you doing?" Niko huskily questions, his voice crackly and groggy from over 7 hours of disuse. A flare of desire ignites in Packie's system - he'd always had a soft spot for his boyfriend's morning voice. Not that he'd ever actually say that, though.

 

"Admiring." Packie reaches out to finish what he'd started.

 

Another heave of air escapes Niko's nose, this one much heavier. He knew Packie too well to not be able to tell whenever he wanted something. "What is it that you want, Patrick?"

 

The 'Packie' switch flicked on. His hand falls from Niko's face as he rolls onto his back. "A fucking Advil, or some shit. I don't know, anything you got that'll get rid of this headache."

 

He's met with an eyeroll he partially misses as Niko picks himself up off the bed, walking through the open doorway into the kitchen to scour the cabinets. Since he hadn't spent much time here being lazy, he didn't have much that suited his taste or something that would give any indication that he lived here. With that said, he didn't see any medicine lying around. But, he _did_ spot a box of green tea, and although he's never drank it, he's pretty sure that any tea would be an effective antidote for hangovers. And Irishmen love tea, right? Or is that the British?

 

Once it was finished brewing - he'd had to stand by the stove the entire time just staring at the kettle woodenly and digesting all the directions thoroughly even after he's completed them because he's never made anything on an electric stove before, all the while cursing Packie for making him so _domestic_ now - he went into the bedroom and presented Packie with the tea on a tray, having finally found some unexpired Advil in the medicine cabinet, and some saltine crackers in the kitchen cupboards.

 

"Here, drink this," Niko instructed. "You'll feel better."

 

"Thanks, doc," Packie smirked, inspecting the steaming mug and its contents. He purses his lips. "What _is_ it?"

 

Niko's afraid to give him an answer - he doesn't want him to turn away from it out of repulsion if he recognizes the name. "Don't worry about it. Just drink it. I have no reason to poison you."

 

Packie raises an eyebrow. "Saying that outright makes you look pretty suspicious, darling. I hope you never poison anyone, ever," He says. He lifts the mug to his lips after popping both pills in his mouth, then sips. "You're lucky I trust you with my life."

 

Now, it's Niko's turn to incline an eyebrow, angling his stance as he does so. "Is that right?"

 

"Unfortunately." But Packie's beaming like he's been given a million bucks because being like this with Niko just _does_ that to him. Knowing that someone he cares about, someone he loves to the ends of the endless universe, cares about him and loves him just as much. Even if he only really shows that in the little things, like being the still-kinda-drunk-designated driver or the shoulder to cry on or the room service guy who brings him weird tea and saltine crackers, but those little things mean _everything_ to Packie.

 


End file.
